After a moment, I answered, “I can.”
His face lit up, his tiny chocolate-brown eyes elated and eager. “Do you see her?” he asked in a rush, turning around in a circle and staring about the living room. “Nathaniel says I’m nuts, but I know she’s here. I just know it. I feel her all the time.”
“Who’s Nathaniel?”
“My best friend,” he replied without turning, eyes darting across the open space. His gaze hovered over the area where the ghost stood, as if he could sense her in some way. “He thinks I’m making up stories, but I’m not. Can you see her? Is she here?”
I lifted my head and ripped my attention from the child.
The ghost had the same hopeful expression. She watched me with a mixture of disbelief and ill-concealed optimism. The change in my necromancy was disconcerting and disorienting. It wasn’t as if I were seeing an entity that shared themselves via touch or an impression. This woman appeared very much alive and aware, apart from having a very airy and see-through body. Her eyes were a beautiful midnight blue, her attire the same horrendous combination all the women wore—green camo fatigues and a tight black wife beater. I noted there was no outward sign of what killed her. I didn’t see obvious wounds or injuries.
“You see her, don’t you?” the child asked, yanking on my arm. “I know she’s here. I can smell her perfume. Where is she? Can you talk to her? Can she see me?”
I studied his enthusiastic face and produced a thin smile.
I wasn’t sure why he seemed so eager, but an inner warning told me it was best to converse with the spirit without an audience.
“I might be able to, but I’ll need you to sit down and keep quiet. It takes concentration, so I need to focus. Do you think you can do that for me? Can you be quiet and let me work?”
He nodded and bounced over to the dark brown couch. He plopped down on the cushions and took a spot near the arm of the furniture. Even then, he studied me closely, monitoring my movements.
I shook his presence aside and relaxed.
Touching the spirit was the best way to communicate, although I was certain I could converse with her as I did the ghosts in the stairwell at the library. She remained still as I approached, waiting patiently after I reached for her in order to touch her shoulder. When I made contact with her body, the amulet went hot against my skin, creating a sharp, tingling burn. She remained solid beneath my hands, just as she should have, but our minds didn’t merge.
“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled, frowning and lowering my hand.
I couldn’t talk to her if we remained in the human world.
“Do you see her?” the little boy asked again. “I know she’s here. I can feel it.”
“Shh.” I shook my head while keeping my eyes on the spirit before me. “Quiet, remember?”
“Sorry,” he muttered and settled back.
I took a deep breath, focusing on what I wanted, honing my concentration on the ghost before me. When my hand lifted, the pendant started to hum again, the prickles against my flesh stinging painfully. This time when I touched her, the world vanished upon contact and the agonizing burn from the pendant faded. Oddly enough, the setting was the very same apartment—minus the eager young boy who’d brought me to it.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She smiled and I sensed her relief. “My name is Marianne.”
“How are you here?” I released her shoulder and studied her now solid and whole form. “The dead can’t transcend the barrier of a mortal refuge.”
“This is where I died,” she answered quietly. “This is where I left.”
“Why didn’t you cross over?” I gave her another once over.
“I can’t leave until my murderer has been brought to justice.”
Then it all made sense.